


A Midsummer Night's Dream in a Jar

by kathiya_ramani



Series: Emergency Johnlock Cravings Treatment Unit [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Hand written romantic messages, Honey, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Midsummer night, Pining Sherlock, honeysuckle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 21:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathiya_ramani/pseuds/kathiya_ramani
Summary: Perhaps there is still some magic left in the forests. In bees and honeysuckles and wild grasses and fairies and John Watsons.





	A Midsummer Night's Dream in a Jar

**Author's Note:**

> Please, leave your comments for me. Constructive criticism is also welcome. And if you have enjoyed it, leave me kudos . They are what I live for. English isn't my first language so mistakes are all mine. Hope you bear with me.

Two days since the last case, Sherlock Holmes is bored out of his head, and is on the verge of running into a full blown stropping episode. Baker Street is dozing off, basked in the dull golden glow of the street lights. Parting the curtain aside, he peers down at the street outside with pure venom. A few years ago, he would have given a piece of his whirring mind out loudly, to anyone who would hear, about the lackluster state of crimeless, non-despicable London beneath him. Or drilled some holes into the moronic smiley face on Mrs. Hudson's hideous, hateful wallpaper with John's gun.  
Now he couldn't, because there is a toddler asleep upstairs. Now he wouldn't, because, unlike in the good old days, John wouldn't give a damn.  
He sighs, and in a dramatically accurate imitation of a Victorian swoon, falls astride the sofa, and starts wiggling his toes impatiently. 

He hears John coming down, and decides to give the theatrics a break. After every mishap that had befallen over them, it was a miracle that John Watson has finally decided to come back home, with young Watson, and actually live with him. What with him putting the poor man through the mill time and again, it is a miracle that he looks in his face again for goodness's sake. 

So he looks at John sagely, and wishes he bade goodnight sooner than later, before Sherlock's flimsy exterior facade of sanity succumbed into the inner black mood. 

Seems like the exasperating ( endearing, yes, but exasperating as of this particular moment) little hedgehog has other plans. He hems and haws, ho hum hum! What is it with him tonight? 

Interesting! The handsome devil struts this way. A sudden picture of John pinning him down to the sofa flashes up in Sherlock's mind and he gulps guiltily. Affecting a not-affected air he turns his head, and quietly inquires " John? "

He hesitates a bit. Oh! He has got something in his hand and he is trying to give it to him. 

What? 

A packet of thumbs? Toes? Toenails? Intestines? Sherlock perks up. 

Sensing Sherlock's change of mood, John seems to have gotten a bit… bold. 

"Sherlock, ummm-"

"What is it, John? " a hint of impatience might have crept into his voice and John backs off a bit. Raising a pointer finger John continues. " Wait, I'm getting to it. "  
Then he straightens his shoulders. 

Oh! Prepared speech. 

" It's Summer Solstice, Sherlock, the midsummer night. And it is said that, magic happens in these nights "

"Magic? " Sherlock chuckles darkly. If he was called by the NSY for a triple homicide that happened in a locked room in a medieval castle, which would at least be a nine, right now, he'd believe in midsummer night's magic. 

John doesn't seem to have been put off by the derisive gesture. He soldiers on. " Yes, Sherlock. Magic.I believe there is magic in this, " he holds out a jar, and Sherlock actually scowls this time. Clearly not thumbs, neither toes nor toenails what's the point of you john…? " Go on, take it. And I hope you open it tonight. Yes, " when Sherlock takes it into his large hand, John nods once, more to himself than to Sherlock, " That's about it. "

He lingers a bit, with an inscrutable look in his eyes and a resigned expression in his face. And leaves. 

Eager to open the so called magic jar, but too proud to show it, Sherlock contains his curiosity until he hears the bedroom door upstairs close. And has a look at the jar. 

A jar of honey.  
Maybe it's poisoned!

Maybe he'd get lucky. 

John giving him something poisoned? Come on, are you that desperate? Chances are null, Sherlock, pull yourself together. He chastises himself and holds the jar into the light. 

The amber-gold honey inside looks rather inviting. Of course John knows of his secret sweet tooth.

He opens it, and sniffs. 

Smells good, syrupy, mouthwatering actually. And as sensitive to smell as he is, he catches a faint whiff of honeysuckle and fresh wild grass. Truth be told, it smells a bit like magic. Especially considering how hungry he actually is, stubbornly having foregone all the meals that day, living on tea and bad humor alone. 

He jams one long spidery finger inside and scoops up a blob of sticky liquid. He almost moans in pleasure when the taste explodes on his tongue ; rich , delicious and fresh. It faintly tastes like forests and summer rains. It tastes divine, if Sherlock allows the superstitious nature of the day to be taken into account. He sighs contentedly, and digs in again. 

And his finger touches something not quite honey. A rolled piece of waterproof paper! Curiosity further piqued, Sherlock fishes the paper, licks it, and opens it. 

"You are wonderful"

Sherlock eyes it suspiciously. Of course John had said the same in every possible expression available in the good old Lizzie's tongue, but not lately. Not since his return from 'being dead'. He can't fathom a reason why he should start anew now. 

Further investigation reveals that the jar is actually littered with such little scrolls of messages. 

" You heal me, then break me, and heal me again, and I let you"

Sherlock bites his lip. That about sums up everything that he put John through. He suckles the honey from his finger in thoughtful contemplation. 

Time to go fishing again, he notices another. 

" Your fashions are gorgeous, if a bit pretentious ,you posh git"

"Your cheekbones! Them"

"Your mind. Your brilliant, unsurpassed mind! "

" If eyes are mirrors of souls, your soul must be made of diamonds"

Oh ! What is he reading? It's almost as if John Watson is wooing him, as impossible as the occurrence of such a thing would ever be. Sherlock's heart races, and does double time, as he prods the sticky honey with a shaky finger to fish the next revelation. 

"Your arse!"  
What? My what ?

John isn't gay. Oh! You got caught, didn't you? John just pranked you and you got caught in the trap like a sitting duck. Pathetic, Sherlock.. Although, you had to appreciate the cleverness of it. That's the cruelest prank he has pulled, say, since the wedding. 

Not that Sherlock didn't deserve it. He pretended to be dead for two years and left John utterly broken that he fell for an assassin and now he's worried John pranked him? 

He licked his finger some more. The honey still tasted the same, only now the taste mocked him, is all. He pulled the next rolled piece of fresh cruelty out. 

" Your lush lips! Soon, with your leave, I'm gonna kiss them thoroughly "

Palpitations! Palpitations of a scary scale. He's going to die. Thank you, that's nice. Why is he letting John do this to him? 

Because there's nothing in the world that he wouldn't let John do to him. If he prefers to hurt Sherlock by ripping his heart one piece at a time, with seemingly innocuous honey-coated, miniature knives, he'd let him. In fact, he's doing so now. 

How naive. 

" Your arse, Sherlock, I think it questions my sanity"

"Your neck. I've wanted to bite it since the beginning of time"

"Your arse. Fuck, I said that again. Not sorry"

Sherlock is running a fever. He's sure of it. His face is flushed. And his ears. And his neck. Even his toes are burning up. However; his observant mind provided unhelpfully; fever does not manifest in engorgement of penile tissues. 

He is aroused! 

Obviously. 

He gulps down some more of the honey. Suddenly, it has begun to taste rather OK. 

'Your arse' and 'fuck ' in the same sentence, especially when used by John, can have such effects. 

"Those freckles on your neck!"

"They have actually photographed a blackhole, you wouldn't know. "

??????????????

" Your genius is rather sexy"

"Taylor Swift, Sherlock, I know you have no idea"

"Your hip bones!"

"The way you drape yourself over furniture"

"The smell of your poncy body wash "

"You are the one true friend of the mankind, and you'd live a whole lifetime denying that"

Sherlock felt drunk. Drunk with honey and euphoria and hope. He must be hallucinating. Maybe he got lucky, as he had wished earlier on. Maybe the honey has been tampered with. Who knew John Watson actually had it in him to poison him? However, he shouldn't be surprised at John's ability to surprise him. In fact, John Watson is the only person who could surprise him. ( And occasionally Molly. And occasionally Irene. Jim could. Pity he's not around. Billy. MARY! Shut up. )

He eats more honey, in order to get to the next roll of paper strip. In his hurry, smears some on his chin too. 

"The way you held me, so lightly, as if I was precious "

"You complete me, Sherlock , as a human being "

That's…. That's rather romantic, he supposes. He wouldn't know if it was, would he? But he knows that John is a romantic at heart. 

He's not crying. Noop. He had been squinting his eyes for too long to read these scrolls in the semi-darkness. His sight is no longer what it used to be. 

"You died for me. Sherlock, can you live for me? "

There's a strange feeling in his nasal cavity. Is he snotting? How disgusting! How disgustingly sentimental could he become, when no one's watching. 

But John if you really don't mean any of these, what would I do then? I'd let you trample all over my heart, if it survives this, but for once, this once, I'm sceptical. 

" I'm sorry Sherlock, I'd rather see you smile"  
He hears John's voice. Startled, he looks up like a deer caught in headlights. 

John stands there in front of him, his eyes almost black and saddened, hesitating whether to walk forward or not. The moment their eyes meet though, John shoves his indecision aside, and surges forward. Uncountable times had he brought sadness, fear, hopelessness and misery to that dear face, and he will make sure this is the last.

If Sherlock lets him. 

God! Sherlock, please let me!! 

Sherlock lets him hold him, and remains motionless. John hears his heart thudding and feels a slight shiver under his palms where he holds the man's shoulders. The embrace is awkward, but he would do it all over again, if he gets to see that beautiful smile on his face again. It makes the wrinkles around his eyes even more pronounced, but at the same time it makes him look ten years younger. 

"John? " he whispers tentatively. 

" Go on" John nods pointedly at the honey jar. "Could be more magic"

Sherlock huffs, but obediently eats more honey, smearing it on his lips, cheeks, and even on his dressing gown to get to the bottom. And hears John chuckle. 

And John wants to lick that honey off his face, his fingers, and… and off other places, if he lets him smear the honey in those other places first. 

He clears his throat sheepishly, and blushes when Sherlock eyes him. 

This is real, isn't it. John really intends Sherlock to believe those messages. 

At long last!

John!! 

Sherlock is such a heathen. He would cry for John in his mind the way a believer would cry at an almighty god. 

"John! "

It is a prayer of gratitude. A prayer of an ardent love that he kept in a jar for so so long. Sweet and pure and natural. 

John is watching him encouragingly. His expressive eyes are shining with unshed tears. 

The last piece of paper was a bit difficult to draw out, as it was securely taped to the bottom of the jar. 

When he finally manages to open it, Sherlock's eyes go wide. 

" I think that Sherlock Watson could actually work. "

Of course he remembered Sherlock's desperate and undeclared declaration of love at the tarmac that day. 

He's smart, Sherlock's John. 

Of course he understood. And remembered. 

"Just say yes, Sherlock, please " John entreats him softly. As if he needs to beg Sherlock to enter the gates of heaven while holding them wide for him with his bare hands! 

"Yes! " he breathes. 

A sob escapes Sherlock's throat before he could check himself.

John doesn't waste his time. He kisses the sob, the honey, the salt of tears and the unique taste that was 'Sherlock' that he had hitherto only dreamt of , right out of those cupid's bow lips, then and there!

After some time of stunned passivity , Sherlock comes alive and starts kissing back. He has dreamt of this moment for so long that he should have been perfect when it is finally executed . However, nothing prepared him for the sudden whiteout in his mind palace as pure bliss filled him. This, inevitably he is clumsy and inexperienced, but John doesn't even seem to mind. Blood thrums in his veins and his ears are ringing with it, and his hands search John's upper arms for purchase. 

They moan into the kiss in unison and hold on to each other like men drowning and the other man is the only lifeline. "I love you, love you, Sherlock..! " John whispers into Sherlock's mouth, spurred on by the moans of joy which Sherlock makes every time he utters it. He doesn't want Sherlock to say anything to him. Not tonight. They have a lifetime before them, so why the rush? 

" Oh Christ, why did it take us this long!?"  
All his doubts gone, knowing that Sherlock is just as enthusiastically on board with this relationship thing as he is, John sighs with elation. 

" A Midsummer night's dream" Sherlock adds with a soft smile. His kiss swollen lips are the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. 

Oh yes, the midsummer nights! When mislead and lost lovers finally reunite with the help of a dash of magic. Because the course of true love never did run smooth. 

Perhaps there is still some magic left in the forests. In bees and honeysuckles and wild grasses and fairies and John Watsons. 

Sometimes all you need to do is, dare to believe.


End file.
